


Laughter and Hearts So High

by inexplicifics



Series: The Accidental Warlord and His Pack [26]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Friendship, Games, Gen, Hijinks & Shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:34:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26820715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inexplicifics/pseuds/inexplicifics
Summary: Over the years, the Witcher trainees of each School have come up with some very interesting ways to pass the time...Yaevinn isn't sure any of this conversation is going to end up in his history of the Warlord, but it's extremely entertaining all the same.
Series: The Accidental Warlord and His Pack [26]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1683661
Comments: 145
Kudos: 1997





	Laughter and Hearts So High

Yaevinn settles himself deeper in his corner, resolving to be as quiet as a mouse at a cat convention. He’s not entirely sure the Witchers who just came streaming in have noticed him, and if they _haven’t_ , he’s not going to draw their attention. His endless curiosity has always been his greatest flaw, and he’s _desperately_ curious as to what the Heads of the Schools - and Vesemir the Grey, widely acknowledged to be one of the wisest of the Witchers - talk about amongst themselves.

One of the Witchers has brought along a small cask of what is, by the smell when it’s uncorked, the absolutely _terrifying_ spirit they call White Gull, and as they all settle onto chairs and couches around the fireplace, tankards are filled and passed around.

“Shit, Merten, the fuck you bastards put in this batch?” Ivar Evil-Eye, head of the Vipers, grumbles once he’s taken a sip. Merten of the Manticores laughs.

“Rhododendron honey.”

Vesemir holds his tankard up and eyes it warily. “Why did we let _Merten_ provide the drinks?”

“Because it’s always hilarious,” Stefan of the Cranes says, taking a swallow of his. “Mm; that’s got a nice sweet aftertaste. Like adding mead.”

“Still can’t believe you fuckers used one of our hives for rhododendron honey,” Artek of the Bears grumbles.

“That’s because you have no sense of humor,” Merten grins. “The bees don’t seem to mind.”

“‘S better than that hemlock batch,” Treyse of the Cats opines.

“And you’ve got a sweet tooth the size of your damned head,” Old Keldar of the Griffins says. “I _liked_ the hemlock. Nice and bitter.”

Yaevinn has not quite gotten used to the fact that Witchers drink poisons for _fun_ , and show no ill effects. He _has_ , however, spent a little time with Triss Merigold, and seen what _Witchers_ consider toxic. He has no intention of _ever_ accepting a drink from the casks and kegs labeled ‘Witchers Only.’ He likes being alive.

Rennes of the Wolves holds out his newly-empty tankard for a refill. “‘S not bad,” he says. “And _fuck_ knows I need it.”

“Oh?” Merten asks, refilling the tankard and handing it back.

Rennes drains half of his second mug and sits back, rubbing his forehead. “That gods-blessed little genius Jozef has invented a new game.” Jozef, Yaevinn knows, is one of the older trainees, those who have already passed the Trial of the Grasses but not yet earned their medallions.

Every other Witcher takes a deep drink. “Go on,” Ivar says.

“Weasel-pants,” Rennes says, in tones of immense gloom.

There’s a pause; Yaevinn rather expects all the Witchers, like he himself, are trying to figure out what, precisely, ‘weasel-pants’ might entail. Finally Treyse says, “Weasel-pants?”

“First, you see,” Rennes says, “you catch a weasel without hurting it. Which I must admit _is_ fairly good training.” He sighs. “And then you put the damned thing down your pants and see how long you can go before you can’t bear it anymore.”

There’s a brief pause, and then Treyse and Merten and Ivar and Stefan hoot with laughter, slapping their knees. Old Keldar snorts. Artek makes a grumbly noise very like his School’s namesake. Vesemir sets his tankard down very carefully and puts both hands over his face.

“Please tell me,” he says wearily, “that none of the grown Witchers besides the trainers have heard about this game.”

“Wish I could,” Rennes sighs. “Your Gaetan was helping with agility training, Treyse.”

“Well,” Treyse says thoughtfully, “this _will_ be interesting. I wonder how long it will take before these mountains run out of weasels?”

“I almost wish I could blame this on the new training rules,” Vesemir says, picking his tankard up and draining half of it in a long gulp, “but if I’m honest, _every_ generation of trainees comes up with something new and absurd.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Ivar chuckles.

“Alright,” Stefan says. “What’s the weirdest shit your trainees have ever invented?”

“Gonna have to be fucking good to beat _weasel-pants_ ,” Treyse says. “But I got one. Must’ve been what, forty, fifty years ago, my brilliant idiot kittens decided to take every wheel of cheese in the damned keep and go up a hill and see which cheese rolled best.”

“...Which one did?” Rennes asks after a moment of general bafflement.

“I don’t remember, because _then_ they decided to race down the hill _after_ the cheese,” Treyse sighs. “Three of ‘em broke bones, and one broke his damned _skull_ , took three months to heal up.”

Ivar hums. “Important question is, was the cheese still good?”

“Eh, dusted it off, it was mostly fine,” Treyse shrugs.

“Alright, I’ll grant that’s pretty fucking brilliantly idiotic, and please fucking _gods_ let none of them remember that - I don’t want to think about how badly that would go in _these_ mountains,” Rennes says. Treyse nods and taps his tankard against Rennes’, and they both drink.

“I got one,” Ivar says. “Must’ve been sixty years ago now, our snakelings got into the kitchens and stole all the eggs.”

“...Why?” Stefan asks at last, looking wary.

“They decided to play catch with the damned things. In the dining hall.”

“Oh, shit,” Vesemir says, shaking his head.

“Egg _everywhere_ ,” Ivar sighs. “We found eggshells stuck to the _ceiling_. And of course when we had them scrub it all up, they missed half a dozen spots, so the hall smelled like rotting eggs for weeks.”

“Alright, that’s pretty stupid,” Rennes says. “Who else has one?”

“Fucking _log tossing_ ,” Artek grumbles.

“...Log...tossing?” Treyse inquires.

“Young idiots decided to see who could throw a log end-over-end the furthest,” Artek elaborates.

There’s a long silence while everyone thinks about that, and then Rennes shakes his head. “Only Bears,” he says.

Merten chuckles. “Only Bears,” he agrees. “ _My_ cubs are far more inventive. Came up with a whole new style of wrestling, so they did.”

“What makes it different from normal wrestling?” Vesemir inquires, looking like he is almost afraid of the answer.

“Well, you see, first you strip down to your smallclothes and coat yourself with oil,” Merten explains.

“...You sure they were _wrestling?_ ” Treyse asks very dubiously.

“Given that they had a whole point system worked out, yes,” Merten says. “Got oil all over fucking _everything_. And if you haven’t tried to get oil out of an entire trainee class’s worth of smallclothes, you haven’t _really_ known frustration.”

Old Keldar chuckles. “I can match that,” he says, and gets a number of surprised looks. “This was back, oh, a hundred years ago, perhaps a hundred and fifty. The lads dug a big pit out behind the keep and filled it with mud, and held a contest to see who could make the largest splash by belly-flopping into it. Came back for supper looking like so many mud-trolls; we had to toss them in the lake to get them clean.”

The rest of the Witchers convulse in laughter; Merten chortles so hard he actually rolls off his couch and lands on the floor. Stefan props his feet up on the Manticore, who sighs and rests his head on his crossed arms, not bothering to get up again.

“Alright,” Vesemir says, “let’s not let the darling idiots hear about _that_ one; the mud pit in the north pasture is enough trouble as it is. Stefan? You got any good ones?”

Stefan grins. “Saving the best for last, naturally,” he says, leaning back and lacing his hands behind his head. “ _My_ darling chicks invented earthworm summoning.”

There’s a long silence as everyone else stares at him. Yaevinn is just as puzzled as the Witchers: _earthworm_ summoning? What the _hell_?

“Alright, you bastard,” Merten grumbles. “I’ll bite. What the fuck is earthworm summoning?”

“Just what it sounds like,” Stefan says. “Everyone stakes out their own patch of ground, and whoever can get the most earthworms to come up out of the ground within a quarter of a glass is the winner. No water allowed.”

Another long pause, and then Vesemir says slowly, “What the _fuck_.”

“Dancing on a wooden board with particularly loud heels seems to work best,” Stefan says. “Though several of my chicks swear by trumpets.”

“ _Cranes_ ,” Ivar says, in tones of immense bafflement. “Give me another mug of that White Gull, Rennes, I’m not drunk enough to deal with earthworm summoning.”

“Likewise,” Vesemir agrees, holding his own tankard out. “Come over and join us, historian; the light’s better for scribbling.”

Yaevinn can feel his ears going pink; apparently he was not as well concealed as he might have thought. But he rises and comes over, and Old Keldar makes room for him on one of the couches, and Rennes offers him a tankard of White Gull and grins wickedly when Yaevinn shakes his head.

“This going to go in your history, then?” Treyse inquires.

“I’m not sure anyone would believe me,” Yaevinn admits.

“Ah, but you’re an impartial judge!” Stefan says, beaming. “Which School wins this little contest?”

All the Witchers fix Yaevinn with daunting yellow stares, and Yaevinn swallows hard, understanding suddenly why people might be _scared_ of the inhuman warriors. He considers the question very carefully.

“I think,” he says at last, “that earthworm summoning is definitely the _silliest_ of the games, but weasel-pants is absolutely the most inadviseable.”

“Hah!” Stefan says, slapping his knee. “A fair judgement!”

“Very fair,” Merten agrees, raising his tankard in a salute. “Ten crowns on your Cats taking up weasel-pants by tomorrow evening, Treyse.”

Treyse sighs. “Five crowns on them doing so by _noon_ ,” he says wearily. “And another five on Gaetan talking your Letho into trying it, Ivar.”

“Ah fuck,” Ivar says. “No bet - no chance I’d win. Why all my snakelings can’t be as sensible as Auckes and Serrit are, I wish I knew.”

“Serrit, sensible?” Merten scoffs. “She took up with _Gweld._ ”

“Gweld’s a good lad,” Rennes objects.

“He’s an overgrown puppy. Though I’ll grant he’s a _competent_ puppy,” Merten says. “Still. That much good humor just isn’t _natural_.”

Yaevinn wasn’t really expecting a meeting of the seven Heads and Vesemir the Grey to devolve into _gossip_ , but it’s -

Well, it’s rather reassuring to know that even the leaders of the inhuman, absurdly powerful warriors of the Warlord’s army spend their free time much like anyone else, in drinks and gossip and the exchange of cheerful insults.

Leaving aside the truly _terrifying_ nature of the alcohol. Yaevinn’s honestly a bit worried he’s going to end up drunk just off the _smell_.

But he settles in all the same, and watches the cordial chaos with a smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, these are all based on real-world games. (Yes, even weasel-pants: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ferret-legging.)
> 
> Thank you all for your comments, kudos, and support; I can't tell you how much it means to me. Please feel free to come say hello on tumblr or discord!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Laughter and Hearts So High](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26856868) by [AceOfTigers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceOfTigers/pseuds/AceOfTigers)




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